


Heavenly Fire and Hellish Flames

by Leara



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angel/Devil AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:24:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3865084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leara/pseuds/Leara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha never did well as a mortal. In fact, one could say that her life only really began after she was burned as a witch and offered the chance to spark mischief and wreck hell (as long as she stays away from the boss’ curtains). The tail isn’t necessarily a bad thing—it does wonders for flight—and the horns? –Well, the horns can be disguised by her (naturally) red hair. She does Ol’ Lucy proud and messes even with her fellow devils.<br/>And, of course, the occasional angel. Because heavens know that those spry fellas need to loosen up a little and let go of some steam that is gathering beneath those halos. Natasha was never particularly interested in angels; after the reluctant friendship with one of the Archs, Steven, she keeps south of the golden gates.<br/>That is, until she hears about the stray angel who finds herself at the Hellhole Bar a little too often.<br/>Natasha is okay with the fact that angels are glorious and beautiful and all that—it’s kinda in their job description. What she is not okay with is the fact that little miss stray angel looks like one of her wetter dreams.<br/>(Turns out black leather really does go well with the wings—Steve <i>so</i> owes her).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chaos With Rule (And All That...)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Ravens_Flight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Ravens_Flight/gifts).



Natasha—who wasn’t really a Natasha, but dear Satan seemed capable of finding an ironic twist to everything—was one of the few who were permitted to refer to the ruler of Hell as “Lucy”. It was a common misconception that Lucifer minded the nickname, despite its feminine referral. It just was not a widely known misconception and Lucy had liked the idea of people fearing his reaction to its usage being discovered. He had so many names—Satan, Lucifer, the Devil, Shaitan, more than most could count—and answered to few, making Natasha one of the few who could actually summon the proud former angel’s attention.

“How is your chess game doing?” she asked conversationally upon entering his private throne room. This had been one of the fewer times where she had found herself summoned by the ruler, and not vice versa.

“Awfully dull, as ever the answer,” said the serpent. “But you care more than I, so let’s not discuss it.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow but did not question him. Her tail flapped back and forth behind her like a horse’s tail in surroundings of flies. In Natasha, it was simply boredom. She was one of the more patient devils when she saw the reason for it. In her boredom, she studied the lord of Hell’s facial expression. It seemed more exhausted than usual.

“I’ll need you to fetch your damned brother again,” he said with a sigh, running his hand over his face and scrubbing the immortal skin.

Although all devils were technically her brothers—and hence technically, neither of them were—Natasha knew exactly which cursed soul that Lucy was referring to. She tried to downplay the smirk that threatened to break through her expression. “What’s he done?” she asked, almost exasperatedly, like a petulant child.

“Nothing that he will not be rewarded for once he returns. Now go fetch, my darling,” said Satan irritably and made a dismissive wave of his claws.

 

Natasha cursed. Damn demons. They were not of Heaven or of Hell, and did not thread the human world. Instead, they were not quite bad but definitely not good either—and it seemed neither Heaven nor Hell was willing to accommodate them. Or maybe the demons were content with their existence. For now, one of them had her so-called brother pinned to the desk of the Hellhole Bar. He was a shade of red that would usually become him, but seeing as Clint was mostly her responsibility (on a good day, anyway), Natasha had made it her mission to save his face, even from aforementioned shade.

“Hey!” she called out, drawing the attention of the demon in particular and his companions, “Let go.”

Natasha wasn’t physically imposing but anyone who’d stuck around for more than a moment knew that she had connections and a fierce temper that turned foul on a whim. She could see that even the demon knew, as his fingers flexed uncertainly, letting go of Clint just a little bit.

“Why should I?” he challenged. “This devil owes me money.”

Natasha did her best not to roll her eyes. Clint _always_ owed someone money. His guilty pleasure was gambling, and he got cockier than Satan himself once he’d had something to drink. There weren’t many things that could influence a devil, but Hellhole served all of them, and Clint was what you could call a regular (hey, weren’t all the good ones?).

Behind the demon, other patrons assented to the notion of Clint’s indebted state, but someone also got up. The wings gave him away—if not, the _several_ pairs would have.

Natasha _groaned_. “It’s appreciated, Steve, but I’ve got this.”

The comment earned her a few looks. Even in Hellhole, an Archangel—capital and all—carried weight, and nobody spoke that way to one. Or at least they hadn’t before Natasha had befriended Steven a while back when they’d been in a tight spot and Natasha had been hit by momentary insanity. She’d been nauseous for weeks after the experience. While Steven was the embodiment of a saint, and the first angel to be promoted for millennia, he also had a bit of a devilish taint. Or at least enough for Natasha to become friends with him, although it was a rarely-tested, rarely-acquainted friendship. Yeah, Natasha had connections alright.

“You sure, Natasha?” Steve asked, eyes flickering from the demon to the less-than-stellar Clint, who looked like he needed to sleep off a battle.

“’m fine,” Clint interjected weakly, “but does anyo—care… to ash...k me?”

Although Natasha doubted that, she still turned around towards Steve. “See, you hear that? He’s fine. And these demons were just moving things along. He’s hardly the only one that owe you money. Badger someone else, this one’s needed.”

“Needed where?”

“You questioning the Grand Lord himself?” Natasha asked flippantly, seeing Steve cringe beside her. He was loyal to another lord, and apparently squeamish. Sigh. He’d shown such _promise_.

“Is there a problem?” a calm voice asked. Natasha’s eyes zoomed in on another angel—really, she usually had a better eye for spotting the damn fellas, with their fluffy wings and everything—that stood with folded arms beside Steve, having at some point during the verbal sparring session caught up. Natasha could practically smell mortality on her still and her lips curled into a smile that did not cause the other to waver, despite a slight widening of her pupils. As if she had never seen a devil before. To be fair, in this light, Clint made a poor example of one, but surely Steven wouldn’t be bringing a fledgling along, right?

“They’ve got it handled,” Steve said with a dismayed expression. The demon let go of Clint, who blinked rapidly and got up, tail waving dizzily back and forth.

“Now like I said,” Natasha replied, reminding everyone in their near vicinity, “this one is needed elsewhere.”

Although Natasha would have liked to know more about the fledgling, she had her orders. Chaos with rule, and all that.


	2. Perks of the Job

“ _One_ demon, really?” Natasha said exasperatedly, sprawled in the chair of Clint’s quarters. “You must be getting _old_.”

“Hey, he was a full-blooded one!” Clint argued weakly as he patched up his tail. Upon sobering, he’d learned that he must have banged it feebly against one of the demons, straining it.

Natasha stuck her tongue out at him. “Cry-baby. You dragged me down there and you know I haven’t been in weeks. I almost had a new record and everything. Just be happy that James wasn’t there or I would have kicked your ass harder than those demons.”

“James doesn’t come around. Pretty sure he’s a goner,” Clint filled in with a dismissive shrug. “Although he could probably have cleared my tab if you two were still sleeping together.”

“Clinton!” Natasha cried out, indignantly. She reached over to punch him on the arm, causing him to emit a groan of pain.

“Still the truth,” he said woundedly. And he was right, she supposed, but it didn’t matter anymore. Although hers and James’ fling had been one of the more real things she’d had, she knew that a relationship was pointless. Everybody knew that devils weren’t capable of love, because they had not deserved love. It just wasn’t part of the clause. Natasha wasn’t about to go looking for something that she couldn’t have. The only thing she was missing about the demon was the sex. That, at least, had been great.

“I wish the Arch hadn’t interrupted. That’s not going to please Pierce,” her brother added with a slightly worried look.

Natasha shrugged. “He meant well. Like all of them.” She added that last part with annoyance.

“What was he even doing there in the first place? Have you known Archs to visit Hellhole ever?”

She shook her head but yet found words to oppose his point. “They say that Raphael used to frequent there, but I guess he got too self-important to pay his tab.” She grinned. “Just wait, Steven will probably do the same.”

“’Steven’. What kind of lame name is that, anyway?” Clint reasoned sourly.

“What kind of name is Francis, anyway?” Natasha countered, fully aware that it had been Clint’s saintly middle name.

“Oh, come on!” Clint whined, “It’s not fair when you know I wasn’t there to correct it. I’m sure you had an awful middle name, too.”

Natasha shrugged. She could not remember much of her mortal life, not even the parts that Satan had filled in the day she’d arrived on his doorstep. But frankly, she knew herself well enough that having been burnt as a witch seemed plausible.

“No awful middle names are going to get Pierce off your back,” she reminded him. “What are you going to do about _that_?”

Clint’s face lit up in a mischievous smile. “I was thinking that we could take him for a flight in the Cliffs.”

“Clint, that’s just cruel,” chided Natasha with a delayed grin. “So how are we going to do it?”

 

It turned out that Hellhole was remarkably better without Pierce’s goons, who by now were still rummaging the deep slope valleys of the Cliffs. Without wings or tails, demons could not fly, which meant they often depended on the services of either angels or devils—the latter of which were far likelier to actually serve them, but also likelier to mess with them and drop them somewhere in the borderlands. Her brethren were little fuckers and Natasha never failed to appreciate it. Nevertheless, after carrying the heavy-built demons into the Cliffs for a timeout, Natasha had found her way back to the Hellhole Bar (which had once been the Hellhole Bar and Grill, but nobody ordered off the menu, so the ‘and Grill’ had faded into oblivion some time ago).

It was a nice place, if you liked the rowdy bar and impromptu brawls and singing contests (which had equal chances of occurring, to much tragedy during karaoke night). Like most, Natasha frequented it out of lack of other options. Despite its name, Hellhole was a place of sanctuary that was placed with equal distance from the pearly gates and the hellish courtyard.

Clint had been right. James was a no-show, apparently having moved on to greener pastures. It did not disappoint Natasha, who replaced the aforementioned ex-lover with a mug of the stuff that could turn the tips of angelic wings to dust (with a name like ‘Devil’s Drink’, Natasha doubted that nobody had actually tried).

“Thanks, Phil,” she said as he pushed the brew towards her. Despite the well-worn, arguably scruffy wings attached to his back, he was actually an alright guy—for an angel, anyway. He was the closest thing to a personification of humility Natasha had ever met, but then again, maybe they kept the specimen angels locked up for good measure. Having never been in Heaven, Natasha couldn’t know although she wondered on a regular basis what the barkeep must have done in his day to get kicked out.

“I should be grateful, after all,” quipped he with that ambiguous smile of his. “You didn’t smack the countertop when you had to get Clint out of trouble.”

Phil had a soft spot for her brother. It just wasn’t soft enough to get meddled up in his debts, which Natasha really could not blame him for. “That wasn’t me. Then this drink should be served to Pearly Gates. You deliver on Saturdays?”

He sent her a wry smile. “I’m sure Steven won’t mind having the gesture go by.”

To be fair, Natasha wouldn’t either. It meant a free drink to her, so she would not complain about it. “Who knows, the saint probably wouldn’t.”

Angels were do-gooders, after all, although in Natasha’s experience, some of them were too prudish to be allowed out. They preached to deaf ears of abstinence and sobriety. She tended to mock those types whenever they seemed nearby. They were awfully testy when it came to devils taunting their Lord’s way, and it never failed to amuse. Remembering how much fun she’d had the last time, she looked around the bar to locate one. It didn’t have to be an Arch, maybe just a cherub or a seraph—those were plenty of fun, too, although her tastes were more aligned to teasing humans.

She spotted two—not counting Phil, of course—but one was quickly discarded when she saw which one the second one was. Dressed in a dark blue canvas jacket, she’d nearly overlooked the angel, whose feathers were tucked awkwardly into the jacket. That in itself stole Natasha’s attention from the cherub. Like a predator with prey, Natasha showed a feral grin.

In three bouncy steps, she was by the brunette’s side, seemingly unnoticed although the fella next to her, a mean-looking demon, raised an eyebrow and skedaddled.

“What’s one of Fury’s fledglings doing in a hellhole like this?” Natasha said in a singsong voice, slipping into the seat beside her. At her words, the fledgling widened her eyes once more—in a very so manner akin to the one she’d done the other day—but then proceeded to narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

The devil understood her surprise—it never failed to amaze and stun (mostly the former, angels were a talkative bunch with few noteworthy things to say) angels when devils knew of the infrastructure of the heavenly legion command. “I’m not a fledgling,” she corrected with the tiniest of confident smirks.

Natasha held back a scoff. “If it smells like one and walks like one and, more importantly, has the pitiful wingspan of a fledgling, I’m inclined to call it a fledgling.”

“I’m not a duck,” the angel said with great offence, catching the reference (which only seemed to add to Natasha’s conclusion of recent departure). “And I’m not a fledgling either, although I should hardly be surprised that a _devil_ makes the mistake.”

“Wow, repeat that and I’ll almost believe that you’re the one capable of setting fires,” Natasha replied. “Then how come the tiny wingspan, huh?”

It took no genius to notice the shortcomings of the alleged fledgling. They were no longer than Natasha’s tail, and the only reason the devil had not noticed the ridiculous size (or lack thereof) had been because Steven’s magnificent wingspan had, at the time, shielded the shortcomings of his protégé’s.

The fledgling pursed her lips and instead of replying, brought the tip of her glass to her lips (which, as Natasha was noticing, weren’t half-bad-looking). “What, is there some rule against asking?”

“I could hardly fault you if there _were_. How would _you_ know?” And although the angel did her seeming best to sound disdainful, Natasha spotted the way she dignified her response with a lookover. Until then, Natasha would have sworn that angels were above attractions. Maybe the fledgling was mortal enough to not be so. However, as quickly as it had been noticed, as quickly did the disdain return.

“Oh, I know quite a few things,” she replied, smirking. “The perks of the job, after all: I get to have the most wicked of fun times.”


	3. Beings of God (And All That...)

Despite the comment, which would have normally earned her bragging rights for days, Natasha left Hellhole without sensations of victory. Sure, the angel had gotten up and left soon after, but without leaving a name. Natasha wasn’t even sure why she cared. She was worse then Steven had been, and not nearly half as playful. No angels were, to be honest, much to Natasha’s and her brethren’s chagrin.

She stopped by her quarters to shed an outfit that did not reek of her recent crimes at the Cliffs. Not that Lucy would possibly mind; he just appreciated common sense, which despite its name, wasn’t really that common amongst devils and evil-doers. As she returned to court, having donned the sash that declared her as one of the Princes, she hoped to spot Bruce. Not because he was particularly mischievous (oh how she had tried), but because she carried a nagging feeling that was gnawing at her in ways worse than Cerberus, and she hoped the saintliest of devils might have the answers.

Bruce was tricky business, really, and one of the few disappointments that Lucifer had encountered in recent reign. He had been promised in some deal with the devil back when firstborns were all the hype, but had obviously been meant for upstairs. It was out of stubbornness and principle that Lucy hadn’t let the mild-mannered devil be reorganized and sent into his proper place. In times of pity, Natasha had reasoned that Lucy had perhaps done so out of compassion, or at least knowledge of how poorly a reformed devil would fit in behind the pearly gates. Although angels liked to preach redemption and salvation, Natasha doubted that they’d actually be accepting towards the idea of having Bruce be part of their buddy system.

Bruce was nice, for a devil. He was more theoretical than applicable, but he could scheme—Natasha had borne witness once or twice, but mostly, he was known by his scholar reputation as bookkeeper.

The thing was that Bruce kept out of social functions, even the rarely-held balls of Hell. Lucy’s glutton for parties had dimmed, but he did allow chaos to reign every once in a while, to the dismay of Hell’s citizens, which seemed to please Lucifer immensely. They seemed to be held out of spite, and out of spite grew festivities. Devils knew how to party, after all, and Natasha could only dread the day where angels would be invited to dull the entire affair. Luckily, Lucifer was not mad enough to do that, and besides, he had not been in charge of invitations for centuries.

“Tasha!” came the muffled reply that informed the Prince of Hell that her brother had already gulped down enough Devil’s Drink to provide entertainment for the rest of the nights. “O’er ‘ere!”

Natasha did not mean to reduce Clint to an incoherently mumbling fool. He did that often on his own, and to the great amusement of most of the fools of Hell. With a grin, she closed the distance between him.

“Looking all fancy tonight, aren’t we?” he observed, handing her a glass of Devil’s Drink without question. Without question, she took it.

“I was actually looking for Bruce,” she informed him, eyes leaving the devilish archer to scan the crowds.

“ _Bruce_?” Clint repeated in disbelief. “What do you want with that bookish fella?”

“Just ask him about something. Research for a prank,” she added to sate his inquiry. Truth be told—which it rarely was between devils—she wasn’t sure. She wanted to know if shorter wings could signify anything else than a fledgling. While the angel in mind had come off as arrogant and supercilious, Natasha had the feeling she hadn’t lied. In fact, it was her calm confidence that persuaded her to think that maybe she had been telling an omitted truth. It shouldn’t have bothered the devil as much as it had, but then again, she was not known for her ability to let things go.

That would have been too close to some angelic notion of forgiveness. And an angel, Natasha was not.

 

Outside of the hellish court, Natasha was little-known. Lucifer, and Natasha for that matter, had wanted it this way. Most Princes of Hell—a horribly outdated title, but one Lucy kept for constituency’s sake—were loud about it, allowing their names to partake and appear in summons of humans who were unwilling to hand over their souls for service and seemed determined to extinguish them. Or that had been Lucy’s excuse, anyway, when he’d handed her the title. She played it down, uneager to accept the duties that came with summons. As long as everyone outside of Hell assumed she was male and boastful, she could serve Lucy plentily. For most parts, people seemed to respect her. As much as demons, devils, and angels respected anyone who weren’t their own kind.

Lucifer’s few errands often sent her to Hellhole for shady dealings (the only kind of dealings that went on in that place, to be honest) and getting fellow devils out of trouble. Of course, there were loads of times where sharp-mouthed devils did not receive the generosity of interference on Lucy’s behalf, and Natasha even saw to it herself sometimes that a devil who’d been out of line got what was coming. It placed her on Phil’s ambivalent good side.

Which sometimes, however rarely, meant free drinks, but more often intel on what was brewing. Intel that was _mostly_ passed on to Lucifer, if deemed appropriate (Natasha really wasn’t the type to get on Lucy’s bad side with a matter that could have been dealt with internally).

She supposed it wasn’t terribly unlike human bars, although it had been a while since she’d made trips to that place. And like most places, she entered through the door.

It had been a fortnight since she’d been here—Hell’s balls tended to go on for weeks, possibly months (if you believed Stark, planner of said balls), and this one had been no disappointment—but there was a shift in the air, or maybe the stench of demon was just less dense these days (one could hope). Well, one thing was different, alright. Last time Natasha had been around, angels hadn’t chatted happily with the barkeep. In fact, there seemed to be some sort of unanimous agreement amongst the winged prudes to hold Phil at a certain point of negligence and blame.

Her fledgling, however, seemed to have missed the seminar for that one. Although it made her frown, the chatty atmosphere between Phil and the short-winged angel enabled her to study the enigma, who in the span of time since Natasha had last been around had dropped the uncomfortable jacket and permitted herself the freedom to keep her wings furled along her back. In the low lighting, their true color teased, and like most angelic wings, it hurt for Natasha to look at them too long. Even Lucifer’s did that, which used to annoy Natasha and was a nuisance that was relit by the twinkling of the other’s feathers.

For an angel, she wasn’t quite unattractive. (But wasn’t that the point with those things, anyway?—beings of God and all that). She’d scooped her raven-locked hair into a complacent ribbon, denying it the chance to frame a face that was a little too angular to be devastatingly beautiful. It had been the feature that had made her pursed lips come off as stern. She wasn’t seated like last time, and Natasha noticed that she was taller than herself, nearly eye-height with Phil. Her fair skin caused Natasha to make a mental note to ask Bruce whether they grow their angels out of porcelain.

She weighed her options of eavesdropping and interrupting. Deciding the latter had a greater chance of annoying the angel, Natasha chose accordingly. “Hello Phil.”

“Natasha.” It wasn’t unfriendly, but surprised—which was a rare occurrence, which Natasha took as a point of pride. “I wasn’t sure if Tony had let you go just yet.”

Natasha grinned—more so because of Phil’s temporarily forgetfulness of his kin. “I’m sure he’d invite you if he could, but I doubt your patrons would appreciate it if you kept this place closed for even the shortest amount of times.”

The rowdy bunch probably would revolt against such implausible notion. Besides, Phil was far too eager to appease people’s needs, devils and demons and angels alike.

“Tony Stark?” the angel interrupted. Natasha could not identify the tone she was using, which annoyed her more than it should have, but also served to intrigue her.

“The one and only. I suppose you and Natasha are familiar with one another?” Phil replied, gesturing between the two. Natasha was able to hide the smirk, but not how her tail swirled back and forth like a calculative cat’s.

“Not really, although I hadn’t put a name to the face,” said the brunette with far more composure than Natasha would have accredited her previously. It made her wonder what she had missed in the two weeks she had been gone. And how exactly did Phil know the fledgling?

“I’m surprised you hadn’t. I come here pretty often,” she replied with an animated shrug. She tilted her head and stepped next to her, leaning across the bar. Deciding to mess with the angel who had yet to give Natasha her name, she allowed her tail to slither up where she knew it’s accidentally brush against her thigh. As expected, the composed angel tensed and yelped, all but flying back. Disgust showed on her face, shielded by evident discomfort.

“Sorry,” Natasha said, looking over her shoulder with a grin. “I suppose we all have our _demons_.”


End file.
